


Gardeners

by Path



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 10:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11644200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/pseuds/Path
Summary: Csevet Aisava loves everything about his work. The energy, the challenge, the Emperor himself... everything except, possibly, those easy and uncomplicated nights he remembers having, once.





	Gardeners

Csevet Aisava does not have much spare time. He comes to the Emperor’s side to brief him in the morning, he mentally schedules the day around the meetings of the Corazhas, dinners, invitations, and the duties that crop up in the Emperor’s correspondence, he advises His Serenity in precedent, history, custom, the relations of the court, and he guides him in… practically all other matters. Csevet has little time to himself- enough, as he reassured the Emperor himself recently, but not much.

Of late he spends it in the rose garden.

He has never been one to wax poetic on the wonders of nature, as some courtiers; he has spent too much time at the whims of it to find it romantic. But there is a prettier picture before him than the azaleas and cabbage roses (though even he must admit they have taken Edrehasivar’s first spring as an excuse to blossom large and bright, as if to apologize for the unusually rough winter): the young Prince of the Untheileneise Court, walking in the evening with his tutor before retiring for the night. Prince Idra is growing tall, as his father and grandfather, and his shoulders are filling out; it is not so long before he will come of age and no doubt into more of the same kind of intrigue that has plagued his uncle so. Csevet rather thinks Idra will be able to handle it, young or no, for he has had all the education the previous Prince could bestow on him, and his eyes are as sharp as any courtier’s, his tongue as wary.

_And who is to thank for that?_ Csevet thinks. It is the man beside him, of course, though he doubts whether the Court will remember to thank him for it in years to come. He has watched them many nights now, when he has time to take his papers and dinner outside. It grows dark later and later as the weather warms, and with a glass lamp on the table, Csevet is able to enjoy a little of the warm evening breezes.

They stop to greet him, as they sometimes do. Csevet has been charting tariff agreements and researching tax rates for an upcoming meeting with the silk merchants, but he has looked up from time to time, and watched Idra gesture with practiced grace- relating his training in the sword, Csevet imagines, though the presentation and riposte may be metaphorical. Csevet has no doubt Idra could defeat many of his peers in logic and debate. But the Prince laughs charmingly and composes himself before they pass by Csevet’s table.

“It is Mer Aisava, did I not tell you?” Idra says, still smiling.

“You are far-sighted indeed. How does the night hold, Mer Aisava?”

“Very pleasantly,” Csevet replies easily. “If the Corazhas could agree to hold their meetings outside in this weather, they might be more willing to reach a compromise.”

“Ah, but they would have to agree to do it,” Leilis Athmaza says blandly. Csevet and Idra laugh, and they all speak for a short while. The conversation is generally the same as any, pleasantries and gentle evening chatter, but Csevet finds it very bracing, with two such sharp and intellectual parties. They have the knack for the sort of enjoyable one-upmanship that the Emperor has never quite picked up. Csevet feels a little guilty at the thought, but it is true; Edrehasivar is serious and earnest and occasionally sweetly light-hearted, but he is never competitive- which is surprisingly fitting for an Emperor. It is only that it is terribly obvious from it that he was raised in no court. And Csevet misses the challenge of banter.

They spend a pleasant five minutes or so chatting, before the two have customarily moved on, but now Idra yawns into his hand, begs forgiveness, and asks to be excused early. His tutor moves to go with him automatically, but Idra smiles and demurs and says that his guards will ensure he returns to the Alcethmeret safely… “And perhaps Mer Aisava will escort you, so your trip will be safe as well.” It is so innocently said that Csevet can hardly believe it, if not for the gleam of interest in Idra’s eye. 

Then he is gone, strolling through the curved garden paths in the dimming light, and Csevet is left with Leilis Athmaza, who asks if he might join him after all. Despite what he suspects is the Prince’s meddling, Csevet allows it, and is glad enough he did.

“How long have you taught the Prince for?” he asks, closing his folder of calculations and references. 

“I was brought on when he was eight,” Leilis responds. “I find teaching so rewarding, though it is not for everyone.”

“No,” Csevet replies. “It is difficult enough to master the material, not to mention the mannerisms. It can be a thorny thing, to be master and servant.”

“Though easy enough, with the right pupil,” Leilis supplies. Csevet has no doubts he was nobly-bred before the Athmaz’are. He had the bearing of it, though it was slightly obscured by what Csevet thought of as the mazeise way of speaking- a sort of diffident amusement, he thought. He was not so unfamiliar with it. Plenty of couriers, also outside polite society proper, had a similar sort of bearing. But then Leilis has the nose, too, and the cheekbones. No courier with such notable signs of breeding. 

They continue to speak of teaching awhile, of Leilis’ expectations and Csevet’s duties, and carefully skirt the obvious fact that Csevet tutors the ruling Emperor as Leilis tutors his heir. It would be immensely insulting to note aloud, and they both owe Edrehasivar enough that they do not linger on it, and talk instead of tutoring in a general sense.

“It can be lonely, though,” Leilis says. It is carefully done, with that mazeise distance, but Csevet can catch the offer. It is implicit in the unnecessary conversation, the façade of polite pacing, the little man’s intentionally-held eye contact, a moment after the suggestion. Easy to shrug off, if Csevet misses the point, but he does not.

“Yes,” he agrees, and keeps the eye contact, “it can be lonely.”

= = =

It is Csevet’s room they return to, polite conversation left in the garden. Csevet only holds the door open, and Leilis follows him in, and when Csevet turns he puts his hand up to the back of Csevet’s neck and pulls him down towards him. They kiss, long and deep, and conversation doesn’t return to them. Leilis is short and plain, with his unadorned robes and simple maza’s queue, but his eyes are bright and his mouth clever. He runs thin-fingered, dextrous hands up Csevet’s chest, and runs a finger up the edge of Csevet’s ear to hear the rings chime.

It is like the soft breezes of the spring evening, after the stifling winter, Csevet thinks, though he is not the type to wax poetic about it. It is just needed, and wanted, and easy, which is the nicest part of all. There is no struggle in it, no frustration or exhaustion, just their hands on each other and Leilis’ hands on his hip bones, their mouths together, together and pacing over the rest of each other.

He thinks about Edrehasivar- sweet and trusting and needing him, in a way Csevet never expected to be needed, and beautiful and strange and vulnerable, to boot. His lord is everything Csevet wants, except maybe easiness, carelessness. Leilis moves in him and he remembers things from his courier days, not so long ago really, of falling into bed with whichever of his friends was at the wayfaring station that night, at festivals or taverns with strangers twisting copper thumb rings or wearing their earrings just so. He remembers when there were no questions, no assurances, and no fear, and he thinks, _those days are over_.

But they are not, quite, because his days are devoted to His Serenity, and his mind is devoted to His Serenity, and his heart is devoted to His Serenity, but his body is his own in the evening, and His Serenity doesn’t ask what Csevet does with it. He doesn’t ask… yet. Csevet cannot help thinking of the sheen of charcoal skin like bright lead, of silver eyes and nervous hands, and he finishes fast, with Leilis’ quick hands around him.

And the next day is easier. Csevet nearly floats as he rushes room to room in errands for His Serenity, for though he woke up alone with sweat still clinging to him, with a crick in his back from almost-unfamiliar positions, he had missed it, and he hadn’t realized how much. _It can be lonely_ , he thinks, while the Corazhas spar, and he takes notes and pencils in strategy meetings with Berenar, and admires his lord.

And when he works that night by the cabbage roses, Prince Idra and his tutor stop to greet him.


End file.
